


String theory

by Misterghostfrog



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad Poetry, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Limb loss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Red String of Fate, Sasha James Lives, it starts one sided cuz Jons a dipshit but they get there, it's complicated you'll see, love entities au, sort of???, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24342937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misterghostfrog/pseuds/Misterghostfrog
Summary: Smirke discovered fourteen fears, and as a result provided a connection between humanity and its terrors.Bringing forth the first true avatars. And their prospective rituals.But there were many things he did not see lurking beyond humanities comprehension, and they're intent torestore the balance so rudely disrupted by Smirkes research. After years of the fears running wild, they are now reaching out to their own prospective avatars.Such as one Martin Blackwood.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 50
Kudos: 126





	1. It's not a Leitner if it doesn't kill you

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this was originally gonna be a quick soulmates oneshot, but then the idea of entities of love got me. And I expanded it, and then I kept messing with the idea and rewrote it all several times and now the soulmates stuff is mixed into a big weird soup of ideas. If you're looking for a straightforward soulmates fic you're probably gonna be disappointed but if you're up for a long ride where I explore the idea that the fears were only the first entities discovered and therefore got avatars first? Then buckle up buckaroo let's have some fun!

It all begins with a book.

Martin discovered it at a charity shop he frequents near his flat. It’s a pleasant little place run by a sweet older couple. Everything is reasonably priced and the shop itself is well kept and neat. He usually went on weekends, he'd chat with the shop owners for a bit, and usually go home with a new jumper or novelty teacup to add to his collection.

He tended to avoid the book section on principal. Everyone who’s worked at the institute long enough has heard a story or other about a cursed tome in a charity shop. Leitners hidden where you least expect ready to terrorize some poor soul just looking for a good read..

Sure, the odds of finding a book like that are low, but he still felt it was for the best to avoid it anyways. They usually didn’t have anything to catch his eye anyway. He preferred poetry books for the most part, and those don’t actually come through charity shops too often. At least not good ones anyways.

He hadn’t even intended to pick it up when he first saw it, not really. He’d been passing by the book section on the way to the till, a new mug in hand- a little yellow one with a printed cat face on it and the words ‘have a purr-fect day!’ emblazoned on the front in cute looping script- when he’d noticed it out of the corner of his eye. It was a small book on top of a pile of YA chapter books. Its cover was a plain soft blue. It had no title or distinctive marking on the outside, it looked like a journal with a thin leather strap to hold it closed.

It was beautiful honestly, which was probably what drew him to it in the end. That and a part of him was hoping it was just an empty journal someone had put in the wrong section. Because while he liked tapes for the lo-fi charm, a good notebook was nothing to scoff at. Especially one this nice.

The pages were soft and worn, like it had been well loved. Though it remained sturdy.The first page read in large, looping script. “String theory”

So not an empty journal then. He fought down his disappointment as he turned to the next page.

Huh.

It was poetry.

_‘The strings that tie_

_Me to you_

_All i know is_

_Love is blue’_

It was strange, the poetry itself was... Well, pretty bad. Really bad actually. But at the same time it was oddly touching. He turned to the next page

“Woah” he murmured quietly. On one page was an incredibly detailed almost entirely back and white illustration of a woman. Her hands held close to her chest, she had a soft, serene smile on her face. And stemming from her hands were dozens of threads, the only source of color on the page. They were all various colors and levels of saturation and, gently spooling around her.

The picture made him feel... Loved? Which was weird. Because it was, well, it was a picture. But then again some art just resonates with people. He'd never really been the type to be moved by painting and such, but apparently there was something for everyone.

On the next page was another poem

_‘Around your hand there is a thread_

_Gentle colors pink and red_

_To all you love they lead you too_

_Hold your loved ones close to you’_

He read a few more pages. They all followed the same general theme. Talking about loved ones tethered together at the fingertips by brightly colored threads. Everyone from friendly acquaintances, to friends, to lovers. The author seemed to have a fascination with the idea. There were no more illustrations beyond the woman and her threads.

At first it seemed a bit silly, the kind of stuff you’d hear in a fake-deep metaphor about human connection. But the more he read the more he just, got it. Somehow those terrible, awkward prose portrayed the idea in a way that made it sound almost real.

His eyes shifted from the book to his hands, glancing over his fingers. How many threads would he really have, anyway? How many people did he care about enough to be tethered to them like that? 

He doesn't know how long he sat there thinking about it, wondering about hypothetical threads and their meanings. Only that eventually he looked up and realized he’d been standing in the middle of the shop for what was definitely longer than was socially acceptable, staring at his hands.

He bought the book, forgetting his mug on the shelf. Too caught up in thoughts of brightly colored threads to worry about anything else.

\---

He read the book almost every day, he’d already finished it several times by now, it was’t a big book. And while the poetry itself of course remained subpar at best, the ideas behind it are what get him. The idea that even when you’re alone you’re not alone. That you’ve always got some form of connection to the outside world even in your loneliest moments. The feeling of knowing and being Known as you are and understanding that you’re still loved despite it, and having that love shown to you in turn.

It’s comforting in a way he can’t quite articulate.

Not for lack of trying of course. He brought up the idea to Tim and Sasha shorty after he got the book, but it comes out all confused and stilted. He can’t quite find the words to describe what he’s talking about without sounding like a total crazy person.

“Like soulmates?” Sasha had asked, leaning back in her chair.

“-Er, sort of? I mean it’s not like- like one person, or even a bunch of people who are- are made for you or anything it’s just- connection?” He sighed, even as he was saying it it sounded off. Not that it was wrong just that, the words didn’t capture the idea.

“It’s lucky soulmates aren’t a thing- Can you imagine the pressure? One relationship you've _got_ to get right, eugh. I get stressed just thinking about it” Tim commented with an exaggerated shiver.

“I'm sure you'd be just fine Tim- you've certainly had enough practice" Sasha said with a grin.

Tim gapes at her, putting a hand on his chest in mock-offence.

"Wha- And this is the thanks I get for all the hard work I do around here? -Also I will have you know flirting for work does not count as a relationship"

Martin laughed as their mock argument rambled on, Tim turned to him after a minute, laughingly asking for backup. It was kind of a relief how easily the conversation slid away honestly. He wasn't sure he could have actually explained what he meant, not in a way they could understand.

After that he tried to write his own poetry based off the idea. Sure he couldn’t quite express it all through regular conversation. But poetry was different, it was where he could put thoughts and feelings mapped out in words and rhymes.

He couldn’t get it to come out right though. No matter how much he tried he couldn’t capture it the same way those small snippets of that book could. He spent hours sitting in his room, staring at a page full of crossed out rhymes for the word 'thread'. It wasn't going anywhere. He was plenty inspired of course, he _wanted_ to write, to express this idea in a way that more than just he understood, but for some reason it just wouldn't click.

So he shifted his thoughts to his hands, and the imaginary threads they held.

Would he have any for the nice couple at the charity shop? Did they consider him a friend, or at least a favored regular? Would he have one for Jon? No, probably not, Jon has a rather personal dislike for Martin, or more for his work- although he’s probably still mad about the thing with the dog- but then again threads didn't seem like something that could be based entirely on one parties feelings. Sure the thread would be faded if it was only based off the feelings of one person, but it’s still there. And he does care. Sure Jon's an ass but Martin cares about his well being, which seems like it would be enough. The idea is connection, caring and love, even small love. Really, really small love in Jons case.

After he runs that train of thought dry, he finds himself wondering about other people’s threads.

How many would Sasha have? Or Tim? How many people did they know and like enough to be linked in some way. What colors would they be? Tim's hands would probably be covered in them. A rainbow of acquaintances and 'work friends' following him like ribbons on a maypole. And Sasha, well he doesn't actually know. Though he knows she and Tim would have a thread between them. It's a nice thought, to imagine them connected like that, a bright yellow thread crossing over between their desks. He wonders how long they've been friends, he knows they've been close since long before he met either of them.

Then he started thinking about the other threads, the ones he doesn't know who would be on the other end. He imagined himself tracing back over the imagined threads to find who was on the other side. Discovering what led them to bond in the first place, what conversation solidified that knot.

It became a comfort, the idea of those little threads tying him to his loved ones was like an anchor. Whenever he was stressed, anxious, or afraid, he thought of the strings like a lifeline. Tethering him to reality. A trail he could imagine himself following around the institute, or to after work drinks. To wherever he knew there were people he cared about, he followed the threads.

And then came Prentiss.

It was probably the worst two weeks of his life, alone in his flat, completely cut off from the outside world. He read through all his books until the words began to blur and the words lost their meaning. He saved String Theory at first. Out of all of his books it was the only one he didn't want to be sick of. He gave in eventually, after the third day of the same book, he was pacing his flat ready to go mad from boredom. He couldn't make himself read anything else he had again, so he pulled it off it's shelf and opened it somewhere in the middle. He’d already read it through about a half dozen times, maybe more. But as soon as he opened it he was enraptured. Caught up again in the idea of the threads binding everyone together. So he read it, over and over, between sleeping, eating, and hunting for worms, he read.

It was the start of the second week, when he felt something shift.

The poems started to read less like an idea and more like... Instructions.

Each poem re-contextualized itself, explaining meanings and strengths. Some of the more melancholy prose became a lesson in one-sided relationships. And the closer he looked the more information he found.

There were poems of knots tied in strings, connections. Pulling on threads and tying them to others.

A thought occurred to him as he scanned through those soft worn pages. The idea that if he just reached out, he could pull someone close. That he could call out and ask someone, anyone, to find him and... And what?

Chase away Prentiss? With what power? Theoretically they could call the police, sure, but from what little he’d heard of Prentiss, the police didn’t have any more idea what to do than he did. How many people had died when she had been hospitalized, seven? Or maybe more?

But then again, he might be wrong. Maybe the police could help, could at least scare her away so he could go somewhere safe. And they were looking for her, actively. If someone came to find him and called the police then maybe... Maybe this nightmare could be over.

He reached out a hand for the threads that he knew were there, they had to be. They had to be. If he could just...

His hand was met with nothing but air.

His stomach dropped and reality smashed into him like a brick. There were no threads, he was alone and trapped and he couldn’t do anything. The instructions in the book were nothing more than his stir crazy mind making things up to occupy him so the boredom wouldn’t get him before the worms did. 

The realization felt almost like a betrayal.

He shoved the book into the back of his bookshelf and spent the rest of the day pacing his flat. Steadfastly not looking at his hands and the threads he knew weren't there.

\--

A week later when Prentiss left, finally let him go. He pauses at the door.

He needs to run, before she changes her mind and comes back, Like a cat releasing its prey, either to renew the chase or simply because it's bored. He knows better than to believe that he's truly safe, he needs to leave before he's trapped again for who knows how long. And the poems are nonsense. He'd proven as much to himself when he'd stupidly tried to reach for the threads he'd been obsessing over for the past months. But all the same...

He ran back to his living room, pushing aside the books on his shelf and grabbing the small, blue volume. Before running out the door to the safety of the archives. And that night when he's sitting on a cot, deep in the archive. He'll stick it in the box he's using as a bedside table. He won't forget about it, of course, he can't. But he won't read it, not yet.

And it waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it turns out I've been mispelling leitner this entire time, whoops


	2. The one where theory becomes practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prentiss attacks the institute, Martin takes a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I did not expect people to actually like, get invested in this. So I hope this lives up to the hype? Also I want to thank Wolfkeeper989 for beta-ing! They did a really good job and you can probably thank them for the level of general coherence here.

  
  


_ ‘When you are alone _

_ The strings trail where you roam _

_ They tell you of your loved ones _

_ And pull to lead you home" _

-No author. From the book ‘String theory’

_ \--- _

Martin had had a few ideas on how his day would go when he got up that morning.

He would wake up before anyone got into work- or at least before anyone was  _ supposed  _ to get into work that is. Put on some pants before leaving his little pocket of the archive, make himself some tea, smash any worms he saw, and get started on his work for the day.

He didn’t anticipate going to Jon's office after hearing a nasty commotion to thousands of worms pouring over the floor. Or being chased down into the archives by said worms, or having to grab Jon before he got eaten trying to grab a tape recorder in what Martin could only assume was a fit of pure madness. Or Tim coming back late from lunch, or Sasha diving out the door to grab him before the worms did.

“Please stick together!” 

The words come out before he can think twice, it’s stupid. He should be yelling to- well, stop her. Or something? But instead he’s just telling her to stick with Tim, like that will make any difference when running from a  _ terrifying worm woman. _

He watches in terror as Sasha tackles Tim, trying to get him away from Prentiss- there’s a struggle and then they’re separated. Sasha is running in a different direction, and- and there’s so many worms in between them. It makes sense to separate. It would be mad to try to cross the wall of worms. But Martin feels a deep sinking feeling as they run. Like it’s a nail in a coffin. He can almost imagine their hypothetical strings stretching as they get further apart.

“Right. There we go. Martin, what do you see?” Jon says from his place on the floor

“Hm- what?” Martin blinks, distracted. He'd been too caught up in his thoughts to pay attention to whatever it was Jon had been doing.

Jon raises an eyebrow, holding up the tape recorder

“I can’t really stand up yet, so I need you to describe what’s going on. For the record”

Ah- yes. No more mysteries he’d said. And he obviously meant it. Martin began backpedaling through what he’d just seen, trying to put it properly into words.

“Ah, yeah. Sure. So, um, Sasha tackled Tim and there was kind of a struggle, but she made it out of the Archives. That, that was about two minutes ago and she’s gone to get help. P-Probably. I mean, she, she couldn’t… she wouldn’t just run so…” She wouldn’t. Sasha isn’t the type to just abandon her friends. Jon just nods.

"Did it look like any of the worms… got her before she left?” He asks. 

Martin shakes his head.

“No. I don’t think so. Tim neither, I think. It was hard to tell after she tackled him. There was just a lot of movement and, and shouting and, and wriggling…” So much wriggling, there had to be thousands of worms- twisting and squirming along the ground, climbing the walls and burrowing into the furniture. A hundred thousand holes pockmarking the carpets and walls. Was that what was going to happen to them? Become like Prentiss herself, horrible hole-filled puppets to a writhing mass moving on and on never-

“Stay with it, Martin. Tim. What happened to Tim?” Jon cuts him off. Right, yes. He needs to focus. This is important.

“They got split up and he ran into the office. You said that’s where you made the hole. When you were recording and they all came through, so… he’s dead. He’s dead in there and he’s covered in worms and that’s it.” He’s back to panicking. Which is justified, they’re in the middle of a hellish worm disaster, they’re probably going to die and the tape will be all that’s left of any of them-

“We don’t know that,” Jon interrupts him sharply, pulling him out of his spiral. He was right, they didn’t know that. And he shouldn’t be letting himself just, panic. Justified or not it wasn’t helping... optimism,they needed optimism. Best case scenarios.

“Maybe- maybe he found the spare CO2,” He said tentatively, close enough. 

Jon gave him a weird look.

“Spare? What? Where? I never saw any,” He said, looking, understandably, confused.

“Oh, I, er, hid them in old case file boxes?” He hated how weird it sounded as he said it. He knew it was silly to hide the extinguishers, but when he’d tried to just, put them places— he felt- he felt watched. And he had this sudden irrational thought that the worms would know if he didn’t hide them.

“What, why?” Jons confusion seemed to hammer home what Martin had just been thinking.

“So the worms wouldn’t know they were there-” He watched Jons face go from open confusion to something almost disbelieving. “-look, I know it’s stupid” He added. And he does, it was ridiculous. At least at the time.Though now he almost feels justified, watching what was apparently the worm apocalypse happening in the archives.

“Yes. Yes it is. They’re just… they’re just unclassified parasites. They don’t have consciousness, they can’t plan, they’re just an unthinking infection.” Jon says dismissively, as if they hadn’t just run from a wall of worms. Like they hadn’t watched Jane Prentiss who by all accounts shouldn’t be alive anymore between the tissue damage and the literal hundreds of worms in her skin, attack them using said worms.

Martin snaps.

“Seriously?!” He says, exasperated.

“What?” Jon asks defensively, like he hadn’t just said the stupidest thing Martins heard all day.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Push the skeptic thing so hard!? I mean, it made sense at first, but now? After everything we’ve seen, after everything you’ve read! I hear you recording statements and y-you just dismiss them. You tear them to pieces like they’re wasting your time, but half of the “rational” explanations you give are actually more far-fetched than just accepting it was a, a ghost or something. I mean for god’s sake Jon, we’re literally hiding from some kind of worm… queen… thing, Just- how, how could you possibly still not believe!?”

“Of course, I believe. Of  _ course _ I do. Have you ever taken a look at the stuff we have in Artefact storage? That’s enough to convince anyone. But, but even before that… Why do you think I started working here? It’s not exactly glamorous. I have… I’ve always believed in the supernatural. Within reason. I mean. I still think most of the statements down here aren’t real. Of the hundreds I’ve recorded, we’ve had maybe… thirty, forty that are… that go on tape. Now, those, I believe, at least for the most part.”

Martin can’t tell if that’s better or worse. He settles on worse. 

“Then why do you -” He starts, deciding he’s probably justified in being angry about this. They’re probably about to be eaten by worms, he’s earned a little righteous anger.

“Because I’m scared, Martin!”Jon bursts out, “Because when I record these statements it feels… it feels like I’m being watched. I… I lose myself a bit. And then when I come back, it’s like… like if I admit there may be any truth to it, whatever’s watching will… know somehow. The scepticism, feigning ignorance. It just felt safer.” He seems to deflate slightly as he speaks. Like the admission took more energy than he’s willing to admit.

Martin feels bad now, sure Jon was being a dick but... No, he’s not going to justify Jon’s behaviour for him, sure maybe Martin could have been nicer, but he earned that little pocket of anger. Though he does visibly deflate alongside Jon... because, well, he gets it. Even if Jon was being a jerk about it.

“Well… It wasn’t,” He mutters half-heartedly.

“No. No, it wasn’t,” Jon conceded

They sat like that for a while, Martin occasionally updating Jon and the tape on what Prentiss was doing. Which he honestly wishes he could unsee. There’s few things more unpleasant than watching a horrifying worm monster vomit goo into a box of files while trying not to think about Sasha and Tim’s inevitable worm-based demise.

“Why are you here Martin?” 

Martin blinks at the question. It seems obvious honestly. Was he worried that Martin was going to just, what? Leave him stranded?

“Well- well Prentiss is still out there, and you can’t run so-” He starts awkwardly before Jon interrupts him

“-I mean the archives in general. Why haven’t you quit?” 

“Are you giving me my review now?”

“No… We’re clearly doing a whole heart-to-heart thing and, truth be told, the question’s been bothering me. You’ve been living in the Archives for four months, constant threat of… this. Sleeping with a fire extinguisher and a corkscrew. Even you must be aware that that’s not normal for an archiving job? Why are you still here?” Jon sounds... He sounds genuinely curious about Martin's choices. And Martin- Martin doesn’t actually know what to do with that. He can almost feel a string around his finger tighten with the funny feeling in his chest as Jon looks at him. He feels like he should be doing something all of a sudden, but he can't seem to figure out what.

So he talks instead. He tells Jon about the strange feeling that he just can't quit. That’s he was trapped by something, like a fly in a web. 

Jon stares at him for a long moment when he’s done talking, and Martin suddenly feels irrationally self conscious. He knows how he must look, frazzled, wrinkled shirt, lopsided jumper. Rambling about being unable to quit. He must look like an idiot. 

He feels his ears start to turn red.

“Martin…You’re not, uh… You didn’t die here, did you?”

Okay, Martin hadn’t been expecting that.

“What -What? N-no... W-what?” he sputters out, he’s staring at Jon now. The thought of threads suddenly creeping unbidden through his head, wrapping around his hands, something soft in a color he can’t quite see yet.

“No, I just… No, just the way you phrased that…” Jon looked away, clearly aware of how he sounded. His ears were turning red. Cute...

Huh.

“Made you think I was a  _ ghost  _ ?” His hand itches with the imagined thread as he stares at Jon. Who is staring pointedly away from him, trying to hide his own embarrassment, eyes focused somewhere among the rows of boxes. It’s cute, it’s really cute. Martin is clearly aware of how weird it is to be thinking about how cute his boss is, especially when they’re probably about to die a horrible worm-death. Though, honestly it might just be  _ because  _ they're about to die a terrible worm-death. Or maybe it’s the surprisingly honest heart-to-heart. Not that a heart-to-heart would make someone suddenly more attractive, Jon's always been attractive in a weird ‘disheveled professor that hasn’t slept in three days’ sort of way. And Martin’s  _ noticed _ , but he hadn’t really thought about it too hard. It was kind of a weird thing to dwell on. But their talk had given him something of an insight. Like underneath all that snappy skepticism was a person. A real, interesting, maybe even well meaning person. Who’s first thought on hearing Martin's reasoning for staying wasn’t ‘you’re mad’ but instead to ask if he was a ghost.

“No, it’s-” Jon starts, bringing Martin back to reality. He’s staring, it’s weird. He’s thinking about his boss in weird, not-professional ways. But it’s fine, he’s allowed to stare a bit, it's not weird. “No, no... it’s just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there, too. We all are, I think.” He sighs. Martin worries at a loose thread on his jumper, twirling it around his pinky. There’s a pause, and he smiles. 

“A ghost? Really?” He says, not even bothering to hide his amusement. 

“Shut up Martin,” Jon grumbles, there’s no bite in it. Martin laughs. He’s wrapped the thread completely around his pinky now, right where he thinks the real thread would be, and could almost swear he feels it tighten around his finger. Jon isn’t smiling, he’s- he’s  _ pouting _ . Which is ridiculous. But apparently Jon is- Jon is ridiculous. So much more than Martin thought he was. He’s not just strict professionalism and grouchy snapping. He’s...

He’s offering Martin a place to stay in the archives when Martin bursts into his office after being trapped by worms for thirteen days, he’s believing Martin with very little evidence about said worms, he’s taking Martin seriously and trying to make him feel safe. He’s chasing a tape recorder dropped in a hallway and asking if Martin is a ghost and looking away because he’s embarrassed and a heartfelt conversation in the archives because ‘that’s what they’re doing.’ He’s a dozen unexpected little gestures and actions and social ineptitude covered in a thin veil of attitude. And he’s still so very, very Jon.

Martin barely registers how much of the thread he’s pulled from his jumper until his hand is practically wrapped in it. He looks down and sighs. He liked this jumper. And now a solid portion of the sleeve is a mess of yanked seams, and his hand is tied up in a tangle of soft blue.

“Crap,” he mutters, yanking at the tangle of thread wrapped around his hand. He looks up, and Jon is looking at him with an expression he can’t read. He feels his ears turn red.

‘ _ Crap  _ ’ he thinks, as the imagined thread finishes knotting itself around his heart.

\---

This day can’t  _ possibly _ get any worse.

Martin is lost, he’s lost in the tunnels alone with no idea where he is or even whether he’s still under the archives. He’s lost, alone, and terrified.

It’s his own fault, of course. The worms came at them out of nowhere and they were fast. Faster than a worm the size of someone's forearm has any right to be. They’d been overwhelmed and in the fog of fear and CO2 he hadn’t even thought to check how close the others were when he heard Tim yell ‘run’.

And now he was wandering the tunnels alone, just him and his torch.

A very large part of him just wants to stop, curl up into a ball, and wait for someone to find him. But that’s more likely to get him eaten by worms or whatever else might be hiding away down here than actually found. So instead he’s forcing himself through the tunnels, retracing and wandering, trying to figure out which way he came from.

It’s not really a surprise when he finds his mind wandering to the strings. They’re still comforting, especially now. Like maybe if he reached out he could use them to lead him back to the others. Like Ariadne's string, he could follow it back to Jon- and Tim, of course. And he would be- well he wouldn’t be safe. Safe isn’t a thing right now, not with Prentiss on the loose. But he wouldn’t be alone.

The thread he’d unraveled from his jumper has managed to wrap itself around his pinky finger again. The rest of it trailing loosely from his hand. He should probably pull it off before it gets tangled on something, but it’s- it’s comforting. Like the threads have a tangible form. Something he can feel.

He’s slowing down now. He’s tired, and he still can’t find any signs of the others. It’s dark, and cold. And he doesn’t want... He doesn’t want to be wandering around alone in the dark forever. Will they even be able to find him after everything’s done with? Would anyone looking for survivors even know to look in the tunnels at all? Will they even remember he existed? Or will he just starve alone and cold and-

He’s pulled from his thoughts by a gentle tug on his hand. He starts with a yell, stumbling forwards. Brushing frantically at his hands- he doesn’t know what it was, it could have been a worm- except they don’t tend to pull, mostly just burrow- or-or... 

He shines his light on his hand, looking for any sign of anything out of place and finds... Nothing. Just the thread tied around his pinky, he pauses.

The tug comes again, and he realizes with a start it’s the thread. He pauses, running his finger over it carefully. It gives another gentle, insistent tug in the direction he’d just come from. And he finds himself thinking once again about Ariadne’s string.

He’s probably hallucinating, he’s probably breathed more CO2 than air in the past few hours and it’s starting to get to his head. But...

Well, it’s not like he can get any more lost.

He turns around, shining his torch steadfastly ahead, following the gentle pull of the thread through the darkness. 

The path he follows is... confusing. It turns off in places he could have sworn weren’t there before, or repeats in places he’s sure he’s already passed. He swears he took a left four times in a row, but that doesn’t make sense, because that would mean he would be going in a circle, and the area he found is of a completely different make than where he’d just come from. He knows he should be afraid, and he has been afraid. Constantly, but now more than ever, lost and alone in the terrifying maze, being led by a strange unseen force that may or may not be there. He should be scared.

But the string leads him onwards, and he can’t help but feel... well, safe is a bit of a stretch. But he’s definitely  _ okay  _ . Which is the best he’s been in a while. Which when he thinks about it is almost a definite sign that the CO2 has gotten to him.

It takes what feels like an hour before he hears voices, but it could have been minutes. The tunnels seem to warp his perception of time as he walks,like they were built to confuse. 

But he can hear them, Jon and Tim, they’re talking but he can’t make out the words. He breaks into a run, hoping desperately that he’s right, that they’re really there and his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. The strings tugs are getting stronger now, more insistent. And he’s running faster and he swears he sees a worm which means he has to be going in the right direction-

He nearly collides with Tim as he turns a sharp corner, stumbling as the string pulls him sharply forward.

He almost wants to cry, he’s found them. Jon and Tim were here and they were fine and everything was fine and he wasn’t lost- well they actually might be lost but it wasn’t just him being lost. They’re lost together, which probably shouldn’t be that comforting, but  _ it is  _ . They’re squinting in the light of his torch and- oh, he should probably stop pointing that at their faces.

He takes a moment to catch his breath. He hadn't realized how much the running had taken out of him, or maybe it’s the relief after the stress of the day that’s draining him.

“Jon! Tim!” He finally manages. 

“Martin! Jesus you scared me half to death-” Tim starts.

And then Martin’s apologizing.

“I- I’m sorry I didn’t mean to- I thought you guys were behind me and- and-” He’s tearing up, which is fine. He’s allowed to be upset, heck, they’re allowed to be upset. He’d run off and abandoned them, sure it was an accident but he had. Jon shakes his head.

“It’s fine, Martin. How did you-” 

And then all at once Jon’s voice seems to fade into white noise in his ears. The words are still there, but the meaning is lost as Martin is overwhelmed with the sudden feeling of something being terribly, terribly  _ wrong _ .

Not with Tim or Jon, they are- they're both fine. they're still talking to him actually. They're probably concerned with Martin’s sudden silence. Martin wants to say something, to reassure them both, but the palpable sense of wrongness is overwhelming. He can't think, the strings around his fingers tighten and- 

There is more than just one string.

Which doesn’t make sense, physically there had only been one only moments ago. But now he had at least five, wrapped around the fingers of his right hand. He couldn’t see them, it was too dark. But they're there. He knows who each one belongs to as well. His mum, Jon, Tim, Sasha-

Sasha.

He can feel her thread pulling, tighter and tighter. It feels stretched, like it's going to snap at any moment, like...

Sasha is being pulled away by- by something. She’s being pulled and if he doesn’t stop it the thread will snap, and Sasha will be gone forever. He’s sure of it now, with the sudden tangible appearance of the threads, the tethers that connect him to everyone he loves. 

He finds himself thinking about the book, how it talked of knots in the strings that bind them. Tangles turned solid, unbreakable. A physical force made of the intangible. 

He reaches for Sasha’s thread around his finger. But... 

It’s too weak, they aren’t close enough. Physically or emotionally, it might work if she was closer but she’s too far away and even if she wasn't he needs someone else. He's not the right person, he needs someone who knows Sasha better than anyone, he needs-

Tim.

Martin reaches out and grabs Tims hand, he and Jon are still talking to him of course, but he doesn’t have time to explain. He doesn’t have time to think. He finds Tim’s thread to Sasha, he was right, his bond with Sasha is probably the strongest he has. It might as well be a wire- but he needs to tie a knot, he doesn’t know how- the book could probably tell him how, make it so he could link them both together and they’d never be lost again, but he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t have time to figure it out, the string is getting tighter, any longer and it will be too late. So he reaches out his hand, and he Pulls.

\---

[A tape player clicks on, Sasha’s voice begins to play back over the tape]

Sasha:

“-I asked Elias about it once, but he just muttered something about funding and mission statements. He’s good at changing the subject, isn’t he... 

sorry. I’m rambling. No worms, though, so that’s good.”

[There is a pause, footsteps can be heard for several seconds before she pauses.]

Sasha:

“Oh, hey. I’ve found… I’ve found that table you were talking about. Don’t really see what all the fuss is about. Just a… basic… optical illusion. Nothing special… just… just a… wait…”

[There is a longer pause. Her breathing becomes audible. When she speaks again it is hushed and panicked]

Sasha:

“Jon! Jon, I think there’s someone here. Hello? I see you. Show yourself.”

[A distortion can be heard over the recording, it gets louder as Sasha speaks. After a moment, Sasha screams.]

[The scream cuts off abruptly, interrupted by what sounds like a small bell ringing and a rush of air. There are some shouts of alarm and the sound of a tape player hitting the ground. Jon and Tim can now be heard shouting]

Tim:

“-at the hell!?”

Jon:

“Martin what did- who-”

Sasha:

“Tim? Jon? Martin-? What just- Where-”

[Sasha sounds worn and confused, there are some rustling noises and sounds of confusion. Martin murmurs something indistinct and there’s a pause]

Tim:

“Who- wait...  _ Sasha?  _ How did you- oh god your  _ arm-  _ ”

Sasha:

“What do you mean who- what are you...? Oh.”

Jon:

“Martin, what the hell was that!?”

Martin:

“It- The- the thread was- it was going to break, I- um.”

[Martins voice sounds faint and a bit confused]

Martin:

“I didn’t let it, I think.”

Jon:

“What thread- what on earth are you- Woah!”

[There is a sound of commotion and something being dropped, the words ‘falling’ and ‘catch him’ can be heard but it’s unclear who is speaking. There is a click as the recording pauses]

[Another click, and the recording resumes. Several sets of footsteps can be heard echoing in the tunnels]

Jon:

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

Sasha:

“I- yeah, i’m fine. Mostly. It doesn’t actually... hurt? The whole arm is just, numb, I guess. Even the bits that aren't... Yeah.”

Tim:

“Is that... Good?”

Sasha:

“Better than the alternative I suppose...”

Sasha:

“How’s Martin?”

Tim:

“Heavy.”

Sasha:

“You know that’s not what I meant- wait, do you hear something?”

Jon:

“What? Oh- I- shoot, I must have hit the record button- damn.”

[He sighs]

Jon:

“I suppose this is as good a time as any to update on our... Situation.”

Jon:

“We’ve been in the tunnels for... I don’t know how long. Time is... Time is hard, down here. I believe we’re still under the institute but it’s hard to say. We lost Martin, briefly. He ran off when we got attacked by some of the... larger, worms. Then he reappeared and did... something. None of us are actually sure what happened, just something about threads-”

[There is a click as the recording stops] 

[Another click as it starts up again to Jon sounding disgruntled]

Jon:

“-still has tape left. The button must have gotten stuck. Anyways, after saying some nonsense about threads-”

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

“-Stupid piece of- Okay. Sasha is the one you brought with you still working?”

Sasha:

“Already got it”

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

“Thank you- Anyway. As I was saying. Martin was talking about threads before-”

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

“-Got to be kidding me-”

Tim:

“-Guys! Check it out”

Sasha:

“Is that-”

Tim:

“A way out? Absolutely!”

Jon:

“So, we won’t need to go crashing through anymore drywall then,”

Sasha:

“Wait, what?”

Tim:

“It’s been a long day-”

Sasha:

“You broke through a wall?”

Jon:

“We can talk about it later, providing-”

Tim:

Providing Prentiss isn’t actually on the other side waiting to kill us...”

Jon:

“In as many words, are we ready?”

Sasha:

“I thought you wanted to finish recording?”

Jon:

“I did too, but apparently the tape player has other ideas. We’ll just have to hope what we have will be enough for... well, in case we can’t tell the story ourselves.”

[There is a tense silence, Sasha sighs] 

Sasha:

“So what should we do about Martin?”

Jon:

“What do you mean?”

Sasha:

“I mean, is it safe to take him out there? He’s sort of...”

[Martin mumbles something in his sleep]

Sasha:

“Yeah.”

Tim:

“Well we can’t exactly leave him. Not with the giant worms running around down here”

Sasha:

“The what!?”

Jon:

“We’re taking him with us, if Prentiss is out there then... Well, we’re all dead either way. And if not then his best chance is with us.”

[There’s a tense silence]

Tim:

“Alright, now that’s settled. Are we ready?”

[Sasha makes an affirmative noise, Martin snores]

Jon: 

“Let’s get this over with”

[The trapdoor is pushed open to the sound of the fire alarm and writhing worms]

Prentiss:

**_“Archivist...”_ **

Tim:

“Ah-”

Sasha:

“Uh-oh,”

Jon:

“Shit.”

[Click]

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter bc it was a doozy! I have a tumblr if you have questions or wanna see the art I post once every century or so!
> 
> https://misterghostfrog.tumblr.com/


	3. practice may not make perfect, but it definitely helps.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin makes a match, ties some knots, talks about his insurance, and makes some truly mediocre coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry it's been a bit since I've updated, I didn't have this one prewritten like the last one, and also I've been incredibly stressed for unrelated life reasons. I'm good now tho
> 
> So this one's a lot of explaining what the fuck just happened, and a lil bit of gay pining, you know, as a treat.

[Click]

Jon:

“Sasha are you sure about this, the paramedics-”

Sasha:

“-Yes, I know what the paramedics said. I- ... I just- I want to do this while it’s still- while it’s still fresh in my mind. Please.”

Jon:

“... Alright.

[He sighs]

Statement of Sasha James, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding an incident in archive storage during the attack of the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject, 29th of July, 2016. Whenever you’re ready.”

Sasha:

“Alright, well. You were there for the first bit. You uncovered the worms in your office. We ran, I ran to go save Tim— we got separated.”

Jon:

“Yes, I’ve gotten the majority of that part from Tim already,”

Sasha:

“Alright then. So, after we got seperated I ran out of the archives to try and get help. I ended up getting followed by a bunch of worms, so I pulled the fire alarm to get everyone else out of the building. I ran into Elias pretty quick after that— and he told me about the fire suppression system. We were going to go try and activate it together when a wall of worms came out and separated us, I ran down to artefact storage. And...

Yeah.

So I went down into artefact storage. I... I don’t like it down there, it’s a nasty place. They can tell you whatever they want about how safe it is and how contained the artefacts are, but in the end the only difference between what we’ve got in there and whatever is drifting around out in the world is a lock on the door. It’s not even locked most of the time, not properly anyway. It's probably the most dangerous place in the institute... Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the reason the worms didn’t go in there was they just... knew better than to mess with it.

I kind of wish I'd followed their lead now.

Once I was down there I wandered for a bit, I’d ended up with the tape recorder we’d found in the hall, so I started updating you on what happened. I... I got almost comfortable— started to let my guard down. Stupid.

It was when I found the table, the one from the Graham Folger case,- that I saw it. At first, I thought somebody else had snuck in there with me, I told them to show themselves— and then...

It's... hard to describe. It was big, humanoid, at least I think it was? It had all the right arrangement of limbs, arms, legs, head, etcetera. But its limbs were... elongated and sort-of bent in weird places, it didn’t seem to have joints, just places where its arms and legs happened to be bending at the moment. It didn’t look like it was walking as much as it was just... moving. Like, instead of moving its limbs to propel itself forward, its limbs just, went along with it as its body decided to be in a new location. 

It reached out before I could do anything! It was faster than it looked like it should have been and I swear I heard it... echoing? I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like shouting into a canyon whenever I spoke, except run through a distortion filter and played back over a broken radio. 

It was awful. 

It grabbed me by the arm and it... it hurt. I felt— I felt like I was being digested. Like I was being taken apart, bit by bit. And not just my physical body- just, _everything_ . I- it’s fuzzy, but I felt like my entire _being_ was being eaten. I thought— I felt like I was going to die, I was certain of it actually. I couldn’t run or fight or anything, I was just being— removed. Like when it was done with me, _I_ wouldn’t _be_ anymore.

And then I got— well the easiest way to put it is, yanked away. It was weird— whatever that thing did to me hurt a lot. I’m not going to lie, I think it was probably one of the most painful experiences of my life. Then all at once it just _stopped._ and where the pain was there was just... an absence? And, well, I wasn’t in archive storage anymore. I mean, the trip wasn’t comfortable. It was like... 

Have you ever fallen off one of those playground jungle gyms, only to catch yourself on another bar before you hit the ground? How it hurts when you stop because while you didn’t hit the ground the momentum has to go somewhere? That’s what it felt like; like being yanked out of a freefall. Then it stopped hurting and I was in the tunnels with you, Tim, and Martin. 

Then there was yelling, Martin fainted, and I saw my arm was... well, you saw it yourself. The skin was just gone! And honestly I feel like... I feel like I should have been— should _be_ upset, like looking at it should make me sick. But... honestly Jon, it doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like someone took my arm and swapped it out for someone else's. I can’t even move it now, it’s just... there.

I don’t... I think it did something to me, Jon. No— yes, I know it clearly did something to me, but beyond that... I don’t know what, but every time someone looks at me, people I know, they look like they’ve seen a stranger. And you and Tim, in the tunnels, when Tim shined his light at me, it was like... look, just... be honest; did you know who I was at first? When you saw my face? Did you... recognize me?”

Jon:

“I... I don’t-”

Sasha:

“Jon, _please_.”

Jon:

“... No. No, I didn’t. I- I don’t... I didn’t recognize you. Not until you said- I mean.... I’m sorry,”

[There is a brief silence]

Sasha:

“And when I came into the room, just now. Did you know who I was?”

[Jon is silent. Sasha takes a deep breath]

Sasha:

“Okay.

I’m... I’m going to go to the hospital now. Let them deal with... yeah... Thank you, Jon, for being honest.”

Jon:

“I... yes, you’re welcome. Sasha.”

[There is a sound of chairs moving and a door opening, followed briefly by urgent voices of paramedics before the door closes, cutting off the sound again. Jon sighs.]

Jon:

“Right.”

[Click]

[Click] 

Martin:

“Do we really have to do this now?”

[He sounds exhausted]

Jon:

“Yes- I just. I need to know what- what you _did-_ and why you didn’t _tell us-_ ”

Martin:

“I- I didn’t actually _know_ I could, y’know... do that? It was sort-of... I mean I had the idea— in my head, but I didn’t think it actually was anything, y'know? Just sort of a weird thought? But then... in the tunnels it just kind of... happened...”

Jon:

“I... I see.”

Martin:

“I- um. I guess it’s sort of hard to explain...”

Jon:

“Just- start from the beginning.”

Martin:

“... Alright. Um- so there’s this charity shop near my flat-”

[click]

[click]

Martin:

“Jon please-”

Jon:

“I need it on the record.”

Martin:

“Jon i’ve already told you the whole story once, and I-”

[His voice cracks, he sounds like he’s about to cry]

Martin:

“Please, Jon. I’m _tired_. I just- I just want to go home.”

[There’s a tense silence]

Jon:

“I- ... no i’m- yes. I’m sorry. You can... I can get a formal statement later. I’m sorry.”

“You’re positive it isn’t a Leitner, though?”

Martin:

“Yes, Jon. I’m positive. Look- if you want to look at it I can show it to you. But it’s not a Leitner. It’s... I don’t know. But it’s not a Leitner.”

Jon:

“Alright. Well... thank you, for telling me about it. Go... go get some rest, Martin.”

Martin:

“You too,”

[Click]

\---

Martin is the first one to go back to work.

His injuries had actually been minimal in comparison to everyone else, aside from a moderate case of exhaustion from Pulling Sasha out of archive storage. He has Tim to thank for his easy recovery, he’d apparently dropped Martin back into the tunnels when they’d run into Prentiss. Thus sparing him the worst of the damage- aside from a nasty bump on his head from where he’d fallen. Though looking at the rest of them, a bump was definitely the least of anyone’s concern. The worms had still gotten him, of course, but it wasn’t as bad as the others.

It’s... hard to be back, for a lot of reasons.

The most obvious is the aftermath of the worms,or the lack of it. The ECDC had done a good job, the archives look good as new. Better in some places, actually. But that’s, well, that’s the problem.

It feels like the attack had never happened,which should be a relief. Instead, it makes him feel like it hasn’t happened _yet_. As if he’s just waiting for a swarm of worms to begin pouring from the walls to overwhelm him again. He knows on a logical level that it wouldn’t happen that doesn’t make him any less anxious, though.

Then there’s how _empty_ it is.

He’s the only one fit to work. Jon and Tim are still out resting, and Sasha is still under heavy observation at the hospital. There was something mentioned about skin graft rejection.

He misses them, desperately.

Then there are the threads. 

They’ve been making life... complicated.

Not to say he doesn’t like having them. He can see them now, properly. They’re, well, they’re everywhere. Which makes sense, they’re human connection in its most literal form. A visual and semi-physical representation of love. It’s comforting, actually. To be able to run his hands over his threads and know that even when he’s sitting alone in the archives he’s not actually Alone. Just... Apart. It doesn’t fix everything of course, but it helps.

The complications come with what happens when he touches other people's threads

He discovers the problem one day when he’s out at his favorite lunch spot. It’s a little cafe a few blocks from the institute, they’ve got good tea, alright pastries, and a relaxing atmosphere. It’s a good spot for writing, and generally convenient. He hadn’t gone since the Prentiss incident, but he was tired of the overwhelming emptiness of the archives. So, he ran out for an early lunch just so he would have people around him. He’s sitting in a little booth near the front of the cafe, when a woman passes by the window. She has a thread that points straight through the cafe into the kitchen. And as she passes by, the thread passes through him.

He doesn’t know her name, or the name of the man in the back of the cafe, he probably never will.

But when the thread travels through him, he knows- _that they’re siblings. They’re as close as family can be, best friends really, and the only reason she hasn’t stopped in today is that she’s late for work._

From then on, it keeps happening.

While grocery shopping, he almost trips over a thread coming from a man in the dairy aisle- _he and his wife have been married for over thirty years strong_ \- and then a woman on the street outside- _her best friend is leaving for the airport tomorrow and it’ll be ages before they see each other again_ \- 

Over and over he encounters random snippets of relationships. Some happy, some sad, some just- frustrating.

Sometimes, very rarely, he finds threads that will tell him about the relationship without him actually touching it. Those ones tend to be... irritating.

He finds himself sitting in a park one morning, despite knowing he’s going to be late for work. But, honestly, he’s been having trouble bringing himself to care. The archives are empty and terrifying, and he’s not getting much work done anyways. Most of all he’s just worn out. Like he’s running on empty and no matter what he does, he can’t quite find the energy he needs.

People seem to help when it gets bad, they don’t fix the issue, but proximity to people just... makes him feel better. He can’t tell if it’s some sort of strange effect of the threads, if somehow his weird connection to the idea of human affection means that proximity to them makes him feel just less bad. Maybe it’s just that he likes people. But either way, when he feels his worst, he’s drawn to crowded places. Parks, pubs, and restaurants; anywhere with people. He’ll sit and people watch. It doesn’t help as much as actually _talking_ to people, but it still helps.

On this particular morning, there are two women walking down a path in front of him. They’re laughing and talking, but his eyes are drawn to their thread. It’s a light soft blue, and it looks strong. He wonders how long they’ve been together, they certainly seem happy enough-

And then suddenly he _knows_ they’re not actually together. They're in love, but they’ve both been spending too much time convincing themselves they don’t want to lose their friendship in a misplaced confession. That they’re fine with what they have and that anything else would just be extra.

It bothers him.

It bothers him in like a fly buzzing in his ear. He knows it’s none of his business that they need to work this out on their own like adults, but he can’t shake the feeling of wanting them to just _say something_ . That somehow he could help, he could do something to fix this. And he wants too, more than anything he wants to _make something change._

...all at once the feeling is gone. 

He blinks, the women are still nearby, chatting happily. But that inexplicable urge to change something is gone. And he feels... good... like there was a weight he had been unaware of was suddenly lifted. That the feeling of strung-out weariness has faded, not completely per-se, but enough that he feels like he can finally face the archives.

Somewhat unsettled by the change, he decides to leave before anything else weird happens. He heads for the archives at a decent pace, kicking into a jog when he remembers that he is most likely late. In his haste, he doesn’t see when the women discover a sudden inability to walk more than five feet apart, because their thread has tied itself in a neat little knot.

Over the course of the next few days, Martin feels progressively more energetic. The archives don’t get any less stressful or lonely, but he just feels... better. Like the feeling of regaining one’s strength after a nasty flu. He gets more done in those three days than he had in weeks.

He visits the park again, now that he’s feeling better he really just wants to get out and enjoy the sunshine and the people, so he takes his lunch there. It’s nice. He sits and eats a sandwich he’d gotten at a nearby shop, and he watches the people.

It takes a few minutes for him to notice them, and another one before he recognizes them. The two women he’d seen last time he’d visited the park were walking hand in hand now. One was leaning her head on the other’s shoulder, they seemed happy. Martin felt a small spark of satisfaction. They’d finally talked it out it seemed. 

_‘Good for them,’_ he thinks, taking another bite of his sandwich as his eyes leave the happy couple to look around some more. Once again missing the small knot tied between them, smaller now it had resolved itself, but still there.

\----

Jon is trying to get into the archive.

This shouldn’t be an abnormal thing, except that right now he and Tim are _supposed to be_ _on sick leave…_ meaning Jon should be at home, resting. But, in typical fashion, he’s standing in the archive trying to get Martin to let him go back to work.

He looks... terrible, like a mummy, wrapped up in bandages and limping. Worst of all he looks so _tired_. 

A small, incredibly selfish part of Martin wants to let him stay, so the archives won’t be so terribly empty anymore. So that it won’t just be him and his threads, even if he has to take care of Jon, as he’s making it perfectly clear he has no intention of doing it himself.

“Jon, I said _no_ , you should be resting,” He’s standing in the doorway, taking full advantage of his size to block the way in. Jon scowls.

“And I told Elias I am perfectly capable-”

“No, you’re not! Look at you! Jon, you look like you haven’t slept in _days_ \- you haven’t even gotten your bandages off, and don't think I haven’t noticed that limp. I don’t care what Elias says, you are not coming back to work!” He’s almost shouting now. It's frustrating that Jon is apparently incapable of understanding why he needs to rest.

He just wants Jon to take care of himself, is that too much to ask?

“Martin, I am perfectly fine-”

Apparently so.

Eventually, he convinces Jon to go home. It requires some small threats of removing him by force, but he manages it and calls Jon a cab. Jon tries to insist he can take the tube, but Martin won’t have it, he looks like he can barely stand as it is. He’s not sending him home alone like that.

Jon is sulking as they wait for his cab, and Martin tries hard not to be endeared. It’s frustrating. He cares about Jon. He cares a lot. He’s not afraid to admit his feelings, at least not to himself. But Jon... Jon doesn’t seem to care about his own wellbeing, Martin has seen him disregard his own health and safety for frankly ridiculous reasons. And it hurts. It hurts Martin to see how little Jon seems to care about his own wellbeing.

He just wants Jon to take care of himself, he wants to reach out and make him understand, he wants him to worry about his own wellbeing for once. _He wants Jon to have a reason to take care of himself._ The thought thrums under his skin in a hazily familiar way as he frets more and more.

Then the thought is lost as the humming energy leaves Martin abruptly, leaving him feeling hollow. His finger itches where the thread connects him to Jon.

The cab arrives a few minutes later. Martin pays for it, though Jon protests, and then he is gone.

Martin doesn’t get much work done that day, or the next. The peculiar tiredness hanging over him like a strange shroud.

\--- 

Martin has never actually minded hospitals all that much before.

It’s probably a side effect of how often his mum is in and out of doctors offices and care facilities. The stark white walls and the constant scent of disinfectant are just another part of existence. He’s heard some people say that they reek of death, but he’s never really gotten that, either. Hospitals are just another place to be, or at least they _were_.

They’ve taken on a new light now, with the taut threads that crisscross the halls. He’s learned over the past few visits to step around them, to ignore what he can, avoid the tragic stories of loss and losing. When a thread pulls taut, ready to snap, he looks away. He feels almost like he’s intruding, like this isn’t a place for him to be. Him with his life, light, and threads binding people together. How dare he wander in this place of parting, where threads snap like twigs. 

Sasha is sitting up in bed when they enter the room, she looks... good. Better than she had looked before the surgery anyways, the last time they’d visited she’d looked tired, and... different. She hadn’t looked like herself, though he couldn’t say exactly why. She hadn’t changed physically, but for some reason the last time he and Tim had visited he’d had to do a double take several times, thinking that somehow she had spontaneously become someone else. But then he’d study her for a moment and she would still be regular old Sasha.

He knew that Tim had been having the same problem, based on how often he’d catch him doing double takes of his own. They didn’t talk about it. What even is there to say?

But now, for the first time in almost a month, she looks almost entirely like Sasha. Real and proper Sasha. 

Almost.

“Knock, knock!” Tim pipes up, rapping his knuckles on the open door.

“Hey Sasha,” Martin waves, edging into the room behind Tim

She looks up from the book she’s got sitting in her lap and grins at them, the first real smile he’d seen in a while. He’s struck by the fact that he’s never seen a person happier to have lost an arm. Not that he’s seen anyone else lose a limb in general, but he’s almost certain that typically people tend to be anything but excited about amputations as a whole. But Sasha seems fine, beyond fine really. Happy.

“There you two are! I was wondering when you were going to come in for a visit!”

“We could hardly stay away,” Tim says, plopping himself on the side of her hospital bed. “Our beloved Sasha, stuck in the hospital? Honestly, we’re at a loss, what to do when there’s no-one around to guess our passwords?”

“Oh please, I know for a fact Martin’s the only one who’s been close to the archives in weeks. Nobody needs me guessing anyone’s passwords anytime soon.” She laughs, reaching up to scratch her arm-

There’s a pause when her hand hits nothing but air. Tim and Martin waiting for... Something. Her reaction, maybe. A response to the acknowledgment of a loss of limb. Sasha’s eyes dart to the place where her arm was, confused. And then...

She drops her hand and turns back to them like nothing happened, still smiling. Martin and Tim share a look.

“Sooo, how’re you feeling about...” Tim pauses, eying the stump where her arm used to be. Neither him nor Martin are really sure how to broach the subject. 

Sasha hesitates, the smile fading slightly as she looks down at the absence. She sighs.

“Better. I think. I was... honestly, I had sort-of come to terms with it already. And I think...” She pauses, her eyes fixed on the back of her hand for a long moment. She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Honestly. I’m fine. Aside from the boredom that is, hospitals aren’t exactly overflowing with activities.” the cheery tone creeps back into her voice as she comments on the boredom, the smile forced back on her face.

“Good thing you’ve got your favourite coworkers here to keep you company then!” Tim grins, the face of forced normalcy, pulling out several envelopes, “And we brought cards from your not-quite favorite co-workers! I think there’s one from Jon in there somewhere-”

Martin skooches into a chair near the bed as they look through the small stack of get-well cards. He doesn’t say much as they rifle through them. He’s tired, it’s a new tired, at least new for the past few weeks. Instead of a general wear or a feeling of anxious exhaustion, he just feels... tired, like the way you get when you haven’t slept properly in far too long. The kind of tiredness that leaves you wired yet confused, completely unsure if you want to run a marathon or pass out. He’s been sleeping a lot lately in a feeble attempt to fight off the exhaustion, but all it’s really managed to do is stack the feeling of having slept too much on top of the feeling of not sleeping enough.

“-artin? Martin!”

Martin jolts in his seat, he’d spaced out again. Sasha and Tim are staring at him.

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright Martin? You look a bit... out of it.” Sasha says carefully.

Martin blinks.

“Ah, uh. No- I mean, yes! Yes! I’m fine, sorry. I was... thinking. What were you saying?” He says, embarrassed. Tim and Sasha exchange glances, a silent conversation, before Tim returns to the conversation at hand with a shrug.

“I was saying that Elias should have known better than to include a ‘company insurance policy’ section in his ‘get-well-soon’ card! Seriously, he should know the typical get well soon format requires the card to be entirely meaningless-” He waves a small flowery card covered in cursive so exaggerated it was practically illegible “-and still sort-of sweet. Stuff like ‘thoughts and prayers’ and ‘in my heart always’, not-” He holds up a second, slightly less flowery card, squinting at the equally illegible text “‘Under your current employee insurance policy, ‘workplace accidents in relation to archive storage may or may not be covered depending on employee circumstance, please submit your claim within three to six weeks for more information’-” Tim rolls his eyes “-I mean really, we all know Elias is a weasel but ‘your insurance might not cover your workplace injury’ is probably the worst sentence i’ve ever seen in a get-well card.”

“Wow... that’s just- wow.” Sasha says, shaking her head, “I mean- I knew he was kind of a slimeball, but...”

“Yup. I bet he’ll be expecting a thank-you note too, the bastard,” Tim said, tossing the card haphazardly on the bedside table “The worst part is he covered mine without a problem, and i’ll bet he covered Jon and Martin’s without a second thought.”

Martin blinks, surprised.

“Wait, your claim got approved?”

“Of course it did- wait, did yours not?”

Martin’s had definitely not been approved. He’d been lucky his injuries were so minor, if they hadn’t been he would have been screwed financially.

“Er- no? I just assumed ‘worm attack’ wasn’t covered as a workplace hazard. I mean, it’s an archive, the only workplace hazards are supposed to be like- papercuts and falling boxes of files and the like.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve established the institutes ‘workplace hazards’ are way worse than that. God knows why they denied your claim though, hell, god knows why they do anything in that godforsaken place.” Tim grumbles. There’s a bitter edge to his voice that wasn’t there before, it sets Martin on edge. He casts a quick glance at Sasha, she’s looking at Tim with concern clearly written on her face. Tim is glaring down at the card in his hands. 

There’s a beat of silence before Tim seems to come back to himself, he shakes his head and his smile forces itself back onto his face and-

“Hey Martin could you grab us some coffee? I could really use a cup,” Sasha interrupts before he can say anything. Tim looks confused, his eyes darting between Sasha and Martin like he’s missing something.

“Um- sure?” Martin says, also feeling distinctly like he’s missing something, but from the way Sasha’s looking at him, the message is pretty clear. So he rushes out the door, heading for the canteen.

The coffee is easy enough, he doesn’t really know how either of them take it- though he’s pretty sure he’s seen Tim show up once or twice with a drink that coffee snobs would accuse of being more ice-cream than coffee. But it helps that he knows no matter what he does to it it’s only going to be barely palatable. Hospital coffee isn’t meant to be good, after all. Not that he doesn’t try of course, he overdoes the sugar and cream a bit in both of them- he only meant to sweeten Tim’s, but in his fuzzy state he forgot he’d already made Tim’s coffee, so Sasha’s is identical. He just hopes she doesn’t mind.

He considers milling around the canteen a bit after he finishes getting the drinks, he’s not sure how long the conversation is going to last. He should give it a few minutes at least, right? Maybe he should grab something to eat. That might waste enough time for them to work whatever it is out.

But the coffee is going to get cold, and if he’s going to give them mediocre coffee it might as well be warm, right?

The door is still open to the hall as he approaches, he must have forgotten to close it in his rush to leave-

“-Timothy Stoker I swear to god you’re going to _talk about this_ -” Sasha’s voice rings out through the door, loud enough to be heard in the hallway.

“-if you don’t have to talk about the arm thing I don’t see why I have to-”

“-The arm thing is _different_ , Tim-”

“-You didn’t start grilling Martin on what’s bugging _him_!“

“We’re not talking about Martin right now, we’re talking about-”

Martin turns on his heel and heads back towards the canteen. He’s not getting into the middle of that argument. They can figure this out themselves, and they will. He knows that. So he waits, drinking mediocre over sweetened coffee, and trying to ignore the oppressive feeling of loss that permeates the building.

  
  
  



	4. There are kinder things than this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigations at made, someone gets a bruise, and Sasha is right as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeey, i'm back.
> 
> I had kinda a prolonged period of writers block where I couldn't decide what direction I wanted this chapter to go. It took a while for me to figure out what I wanted from it. But once I decided I wanted it to be from Jons perspective it clicked!

[Click]

Jon:

Statement of Martin K. Blackwood regarding a book he discovered in a charity shop near his flat early December 2016. Statement written September 2nd, 2016. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

There’s-

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

Statement begins-

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

I can’t record Martin's statement.

I assumed it was some- some kind of fluke, during the Prentiss attack. A-a problem with the tapes, that something-something got damaged. But this tape player is fresh, and when i’ve tried to record other statements with it, it worked fine. Martin's statement is the only one giving it any trouble. It won’t record digitally, either. The only way I can have a copy is in writing.

And I don’t know  _ why _ .

What is it about Martin’s... story...abilities that is causing this? Do the tapes not- not  _ want _ it? I- I don’t  _ understand. _

Is it something to do with the tunnels? Did- did his abilities manifesting themselves there somehow interfere with recording? Or is it something else?

[A sigh]

Jon:

Speaking of, I’ve been trying to find the entrance to the tunnels since I got back. But it turns out nobody marked the entrances that weren’t holes in the wall. The ECDC apparently just let it be once they were done. And my own memory of exiting the tunnels is... hazy, I- I don’t really want to think about it too long. It’s... anyway... I’m still looking for the entrance. But honestly, I’m not sure I’ll be able to find it on my own. The archives are big, and messier than ever after the attack.

I’m going to keep searching though, it’s possible, maybe I'll find some sort of- solution there. An answer, at least.

I’m going to start keeping Martin's statement in my desk. I almost lost it a few times while trying to figure out where to put it. And since there’s no way for me to make a backup, I- I can’t risk it.

I’m going to keep looking into this, I- I need to  _ understand. _

End recording.

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

Statement of Billy Costa regarding a flower in their window box. Original statement given November 22nd, 1998. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

I’ve never been a very good gardener-

[Click]

[Click]

  
  


Jon:

-artin? Martin!

[A door slams, Jons voice fades as he gets farther away]

  
  


[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

Supplemental

We’ve been looking for more statements that won’t record on tape, ever since Martin found the first one apparently just  _ sitting _ in the archives. I know I should- I have bigger things to worry about than a few off statements. But I- these statements, I think, are the key to understanding what’s happening with Martin. He doesn’t like to talk about it- says it’s embarrassing. But whatever is happening to him it’s- it’s  _ different _ . 

[A pause]

Jon:

[thoughtfully] He’s been looking the worse for wear recently, I don’t think he’s been sleeping well.

[Jon huffs]

Jon:

I suppose I know the feeling, I rarely sleep myself nowadays. Far too much to do, too many questions.

[he sighs]

Jon:

We’ve been reading through the statements we do find away from the recorders, and it’s... something. I... this is going to sound mad but, when I read them I feel... strange. It’s not a- a bad strange. It’s just. Strange. I honestly don’t know how to describe it.

He’s actually found two more since. They’re... odd. I’m having trouble finding a particular thread- hah -that connects them. We just don’t have enough of them to figure out what makes them so different from the rest. But so far, Martin is the only one who seems to be able to find them.

I’m not sure what that means. A part of me wants to say nothing good, but... well.

I suppose we’ll just have to find out.

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

-Aside from that, there’s little more we can do with this statement. Mr. Neill himself passed away last year. Martin hasn’t been able to get a hold of the official cause of death, but judging by the number of antibiotics the police report list as being at his home at the time, it must have been something very nasty indeed-

[Someone knocks on the door, Jon makes a small disgruntled noise]

Jon: 

Ah, come in!

Sasha:

Hey Jon, I just- oh, were you recording?

Jon:

I was just about done, don’t worry about it. What is it?

Sasha:

Oh, it’s about Martin's statements, you know the ones that won’t record on tape?

Jon:

I hardly think we can call them  _ Martin’s _ statements-

Sasha:

He’s the only one who can find them, and I think it’s fitting. Especially now I think I've figured out what they’ve all got in common.

Jon:

Wh- really?

Sasha:

Yup! Y’see, the thing we were doing wrong was looking for a common theme. Because all the encounters were pretty different, like with flowers, threads, and the like. But then I realized- those are just subcategories, like how the “normal” statements have things like bugs, meat, the dark, all that. These ones have their own sort of subsections as well.

Once I realized that, it was pretty easy to find what makes them so different. It’s honestly kind of ridiculous we didn’t figure it out sooner. But then again you know what they say about simple answers— 

Jon:

[overlapping slightly] Well? What is it?

Sasha:

They’re all  _ nice. _

Jon:

Nice? What do you mean by nice?

Sasha:

They all- Here, look I’ll show you- let me put this down I can’t sort through them one handed-

[Some shuffling and the sound of shifting papers]

Sasha:

There.

[The sound of paper being rearranged]

Sasha:

Billy Costa, a lonely young adult who finds a flower growing in their window box. The flower blooms every time something good is about to happen-

[Each sentence is punctuated by the sound of another piece of paper being placed in front of the Archivist]

Sasha:

-Marcus Root, colorblind all his life until he met his now-wife who was also colorblind. They both started seeing colors when they started dating-

-Bella Carlisle, who discovered a book in her grandmother's things with a list of names, every person she’s met with one of the names has changed her life for the better-

-and Fred Peele, who suffered extreme night terrors all his life. Until he was given a stuffed animal that was apparently a gift from a very good friend who passed away. The stuffed animal moves around on its own during the night, and he hasn’t had a nightmare since.

[There’s a beat of silence, punctuated but the occasional brush of paper]

Jon:

I- I see...

That means whatever is going on with Martin is-

Sasha:

Not nearly worth the looks you've been giving him? Yeah.

Jon:

I haven’t been giving him _ looks- _

[Sasha hums, clearly unconvinced. There’s a silence]

Sasha: 

There is something about this that worries me, though.

Jon:

What?

Sasha:

If all the statements that won’t record are about, y’know, nice things. Then what does that mean for us?

Jon:

I’m... not sure I follow.

Sasha:

L-look, I know it’s not just me. I know Tim’s noticed and I'm sure you and Martin have felt it, too. There’s something...  _ wrong  _ with this place. That weird feeling of being watched whenever we’re reading through statements, a-and how we seem to have an entire storage room full of awful artifacts- I always chalked it up to the supernatural just being nasty as a whole but this?

Jon... this is proof that the supernatural isn’t all bad, that there’s some genuinely good forces out there, but somehow this entire building is dedicated to- to  _ fear.  _ So much so that nice things won’t even go on these stupid tapes.

[There’s a small clatter of plastic as Sasha knocks one of the tapes to the side, and Jon makes a disgruntled noise]

Sasha:

We should probably quit, honestly. All of us. Right now. Just walk out and never come back.

Jon:

I... Yes. We really should.

[A long silence]

Sasha:

We’re not going to, are we.

Jon:

I suppose not.

Sasha:

_ Why _ ?

Jon:

I’m not sure I follow.

Sasha:

I mean what’s keeping us here? I mean between the worms and the statements and- even artifact storage. There’s not a good reason I can think of in the world for any of us to stick around. But- but we’re all still here.

Jon:

[disquieted] I- I mean. I don’t know about you but for me it's...

[he sighs]

Jon:

There’s just too much we don’t know yet. There’s too much we don’t  _ understand _ . Between what happened to you, and all these statements, a-and Martin’s statements...

[There’s a pause, Jon chuckles]

Sasha:

What?

Jon:

I just- in an archive apparently dedicated to the worst the supernatural has to offer, Martin manages to be the one to get tied up in- in  _ this _ . 

[paper shuffles as Jon indicates the ‘Martin statements’]

Jon:

I just...

[he sighs]

Jon:

[unconsciously fond] It’s all very  _ Martin _ .

[there’s a pause]

Jon:

What?

Sasha:

[teasing] Nothing! Nothing at all! Anyway, I'll get out of your hair, lots of evil archiving to do you know.

Jon:

I think  _ evil _ might be a bit of a stretch.

[Sasha humms, unconvinced. Footsteps recede, then pause]

Sasha:

Oh, yeah. Tim wanted to know if you wanted to come to drinks with the rest of us on Friday, weekend coming up and all that. And you don’t have to, but... with everything going on right now, I think it would be good for you, for all of us really. To just, get away from all this for a bit.

Jon:

I- I don’t... 

[A pause]

I’ll think about it.

[A door clicks shut, Jon sighs]

Jon:

End recording.

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

Supplemental.

I’ve been reading over some statements. Nothing particularly important, but I found one of the ones Sasha left on my desk. And I... I had a realization. 

I... I’ve figured out what makes the er, ‘Martin statements’ so... odd, to read. It took me longer than it should have really, but it’s shocking what one can get used to if given enough time. It was the contrast, I think, going between reading ones that record normally to ones that won’t.

When I read them, I don’t feel watched.

Whenever I’m recording, or even just reading a statement to myself. I feel like- like someone’s watching me. Like there’s a prickle on the back of my neck, like, like I'm being observed. But with these... I just, don’t.

Even now just talking about it, I don’t feel it quite as strongly. I- I almost forgot to record this update, actually. I... only remembered just before I was getting ready to leave, and I almost just left it be. But then... I remembered what Sasha said, about this place. About what it ‘wants’.

I’m not sure what it means. But Sasha’s right, there’s something... wrong, with the Institute. I don’t know what, exactly. But... it’s off. I’ve tried to brush it off as lingering paranoia from Prentiss, or a side effect of reading horrible things for hours at a time. But... I'm not the only one who feels it. The others feel it, too. And it’s clear this place is not what it seems. I’m actually starting to wonder if it’s the Institute itself… watching.

[he chuckles wryly, then sighs]

Jon:

This place is making me paranoid.

Maybe I should go with the others this weekend. I think... in a place like this, I need to have people I can trust, I-

[There’s a loud echoing creaking noise from somewhere in the archives, followed by shuffling. Jon’s chair screeches against the hardwood as he jumps to his feet.]

Jon:

Wh- Hello? Who’s there?

[Footsteps as Jon walks towards the noise, his breathing quick and uneven]

Jon:

What-

[the footsteps stop]

Jon:

What the hell?

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

Someone’s opened the tunnels.

I-I don’t know who, they were gone by the time I got there. But- But the trap door was left open, I was right, I don’t think I ever would have found it on my own. Whoever it was left the key. I- I don’t- I don’t know who- but...

I think someone- or, something, wants me to go down.

[He takes a deep, shaky breath]

I’m going.

I- I need to know what’s down there. I need to understand what- what’s happening.

I brought a torch. It’ll just... it’ll just be a quick peek, to see what I’m dealing with.

[more to himself] Just a quick look.

[Click]

[Click]

[There is the sound of hurried echoing footsteps, and Jon’s heavy breathing.]

[The footsteps pause for a moment, as if he is deliberating. Before starting again, faster this time. There’s a small cry of relief, and then the sound of a trapdoor flying open, some more shuffling, and it closes again with a slam and the sound of paper flying.]

[There’s a moment of silence, punctuated only by Jons heavy breathing and paperwork settling. Then a creak of a door and distant footsteps, Jon makes a strangled noise of fear and then-]

Elias: 

Ah, Jon. Apologies, I didn’t realize anyone was here. I suppose you were the one making all the noise then?

Jon:

I- ah, um.

Elias:

Don’t worry, I won’t tell Martin you’re working nights again, I was just looking to see if someone had seen my keys. I lost them at some point last night I think, you haven’t seen them, have you?

Jon:

Uh- n-no?

Elias:

A shame. Alright then, I'll just leave you to it. Do try to go home at some point, Jon. It won’t do for you to burn yourself out. Ta-ta then.

[Jon fumbles for a moment as Elias turns and walks away, his footsteps receding until the door to the archives slams shut, then a short pause]

Jon:

I... Right.

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

[in the middle of a statement]

-It was February when I got the Leitner book. I’d heard of him before, of course, though I’d never met the man. The rare book trade is a comparatively small world, at least within the UK, and his name would often come up whenever I was gossiping with my peers. Sometimes it was about which valuable piece he’d snatched for a fraction of its true value, or the ridiculous amount he’d paid for a book that everyone else was sure was a fake-

[Jon yells and curses, there’s the sound of a chair screeching against wood and falling paper]

Jon:

Goddamn- what on  _ Earth _ .

[a door opens]

Tim:

You alright boss? We heard- oh wow. Need help cleaning that up?

Jon:

I- no, it’s fine. Thank you. I think something just- it’s fine.

Tim:

A-lright then. Just so you know, it’s not too late to change your mind about drinks. I know Martin was especially looking forward to you coming along.

Jon:

I’m sure I have no idea why you think Martin's opinion would influence my decision. But no. I still have too much to do here... Maybe next time.

Tim:

I’ll hold you to that.

[The door shuts]

Jon:

Now- what on Earth-

[a pause]

Jon:

Huh.

[Click]

[Click]

Jon:

Supplemental.

Something strange is happening in the Institute. I suppose at this point that goes without saying but this- this is different.

I was recording Herbert Knoxx’s statement last week when I- I got hit with something. Right on my left shin, it felt like I’d smashed it into something but- but when I looked under my desk there was nothing there.

I have a bruise now, a big nasty, blotchy thing. I honestly was ready to write it off as a- a one-off incident. A side effect of being in the Institute as a whole. Or- more I wanted to. I didn’t want to care about it, which now that I think about it... it sounds... I don’t know. It just didn’t seem important in comparison to everything else going on, I suppose. But then- yesterday morning, I got a papercut. Or more accurately a papercut happened to me. I was in the canteen grabbing some lunch- heaven forbid I forget a meal and Martin found out. Hah. And I looked down and right in front of my eyes, it just- appeared. 

Is it something to do with the tunnels? Is there something trying to deter me? Or- damn it, am I being  _ haunted _ ?

Or am I just overreacting? Is- am I just losing my mind?

I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to  _ do.  _ Is this going to escalate? Am I going to get my head bashed in by some archives poltergeist or is it just, harmless injuries?

I don’t know. I don’t know if I should mention it to the others, maybe- maybe they’ve noticed something similar. 

Or maybe they’ll just think I’m crazy.

Speaking of tunnels, my investigation has been... slow going. 

It’s almost impossible not to get lost in those twisting corridors. I would say it’s like a maze, but mazes are designed, built with the purpose of being eventually escaped. No, this was something else.... created to confuse and disorientate.

I admit I was... scared off for a few days after my first attempt at exploration. I made the mistake of only bringing one torch and no way to mark my progress, and ended up hopelessly lost within minutes. I barely got out before my torch died. I've learned since, and have made some sort of progress in my exploration. I haven’t gotten too far, mostly making sure to mark all the turns to prevent a second incident. 

I have no intention of getting lost again.

[Click]

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta, wolfkeeper989! They're really nice and they've been really helpful!
> 
> I have a tumblr if you have questions or wanna see the art I post once every century or so!
> 
> https://misterghostfrog.tumblr.com/


End file.
